


hands were meant to create (and other truths by creatives)

by kontj (kaguol)



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Artists, F/M, Fluff, Gen, M/M, Musicians, Pianist Reader, Timeskip
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-06
Updated: 2020-12-06
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:34:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 872
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27916099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaguol/pseuds/kontj
Summary: in a place filled to the brim with art, you find your muse.in a place filled to the brim with art, you find your muse.
Relationships: Akaashi Keiji/Reader
Comments: 2
Kudos: 7





	hands were meant to create (and other truths by creatives)

Though the gallery was filled with smiles, Akaashi had never felt so unwelcomed.

People were milling about, most of Japan’s upper class swapping stories in front of the art pieces. The museum was closed to the public that day, accessed only by those with the means to acquire tickets to the first unveiling.

Which meant that Akaashi had no right to be there.

His smile was forced, echoed with the same shivering glare. He’d only been able to attend in place of Udai, who’d caught the flu the very morning of the event. Since their latest work would revolve around a famous artist, it had been his idea to be able to dig into the general atmosphere of the art world.

The raven checked his watch, comparing it to the schedule in his hand. The painter was due to present their works in half an hour, and with a quick look around, he noticed that they were in no rush to address the crowd either.

Pushing himself out of the corner, he slinked away into the corridor, breathing a sigh of relief once he was out of the main hall.

Akaashi relished in the silence, his breaths no longer measured by the cold stares of the room. Taking out his notebook, he egan recounting some of the strangers’ quirks, mixing general with specifics as to avoid possible legal action.

Though it hasn’t been entirely silent in that particular part of the museum, there was a sound that caught his attention. Slipping the booklet into his bag, he wove through the corridors, following the sound.

The paintings swirled around as he passed them, the more intricate and vivid colors slowly bleeding out into soft strokes and shadows. The sound was loudest when the colors were no more than greys against cream canvas.

Taking the final turn, Akaashi felt the air robbed from his lungs.

In the middle of the dimly lit room was a grand piano, filling the air with the Vivaldi Variation. The song was no longer than two minutes, but the piano wept with such longing that he felt the tragedy even from afar.

Entranced, he stepped closer, holding his breath so as to not disturb the pianist. He watched, clutching his chest as you let the music flow through you, hands flying across the keys. Your eyes were strewn shut, body swaying as you hit the final notes, Akaashi finally letting go as it ended.

“Wow.”

In the silence, Akaashi’s voice was deafening, and in your rapture you had just noticed him standing near the piano. 

“Was I disturbing you? Shit — sorry, I just.—” His hands gestured to the air, only to come up at the base of his neck in embarrassment.

“You play… really good.”

All four years of studying literature and basic sentence structure flew out the window as he stood there, tongue tied and holding back his urge to gush. With Bokuto busy training for the Olympics and none of his coworkers were really into classical music, he found himself with no outlet for his particular niche.

As he turned to walk away, it was the piano that stopped him.

He turned, the gap in the notes stinging his ears. You met his confused face with a knowing grin, patting the space next to you.

Akaashi took a seat, tentatively placing his hand on the keys, hoping that his body remembered the same way as his heart.

You led with a sure hand, gliding effortlessly through as though your body had done nothing but let music flow through it. As he spared you a glance, Akaashi reckons you probably had. His first steps were awkward, playing keys that shouldn’t be, bumping into you every other way.

But you never faltered. In the middle of him stumbling through the sonata, it felt like you took his hand. Though he stepped on your foot many a time, you guided him into the melody until his body remembered how to sing.

With the final chord, Akaashi remembered fire in his lungs.

He turned to you, his hair sticking to his face. A slight sheen of sweat collected on his brow, yet you could not focus on anything else.

They said that the hottest fires burn blue, and staring into his eyes, you believe them.

The two of you missed the rest of the program, spending a good portion of the night exchanging stories and taking turns.

Though there was outrage in the main foyer with the disappearance of the faceless painter who promised to appear, they were easily placated.

For the next couple of years, more of your work appeared to the public, both in and out of prestigious museums. From art connoisseurs to mere children, they awaited in anticipation for your next move.

Will it be in the city plaza, framed and standing in the rain for the elements to feel?

Or will it be hidden behind a Makki’s parking lot? Privy only to those who sit behind the old jukebox?

Alas, there was also the question of your muse, whose identity was as much as a mystery as your own.

All the public had was that he was a painter with a soft smile.

And gunmetal blue eyes.


End file.
